THE CLUBMAN.

New Zealand Illustrated Sporting & Dramatic Review, Issue 1150, 25 April 1912, Page 6

THE CLUBMAN.

To that extreme section of the public, designated “wowsers,” one looks for little tolerance because they are too bigoted to see anything in its true perspective. As a class wowsers refuse to recognise the strong line of demarcation between betting and gambling, and consequently roundly condemn both as grave social evils which bring degradation in their train. To any normal-minded person, however, the difference between betting and gambling is as black is to white. It is on account of this visional obliquity that the sport of horseracing is so unjustly under the lash of the bigoted wowser and rabid killjoy.

In a recent address on the subject of horse-racing the Archbishop of Adelaide stated that he had never bet on a horse in his life, and then remarked: ‘ Where horses are concerned I am a perfect stupid, and if I did bet my money would be as good as gone. Still, I will admit this, if I only had the gift of prophecy, which 1 assuredly have not, and knew with absolute certainty, the horse that was going to carry off the next Onkaparinga or Randwick or Melbourne Cup, I should not have the slightest hesitation, nor the shadow of a scruple ■of conscience, in backing that horse for a handsome amount.”

Would any reasonable person dare to say that if the Archbishop of Adelaide had backed The Parisian for the last Melbourne Cup he would have been guilty of gambling? We think not. He would merely have been taking a sporting wager. The win would not have induced the estimable prelate to “go on with the game” and flit away his liberal stipend in backing “duffers” at other race meetings. He would probably have put his sporting gains to some charitable purpose, reserving sufficient to have another mild bet on his fancy when the next great Australian race came up for decision. Any, bets the Archbishop of Adelaide cared to make would do no man, woman or child a tittle of harm if he lost, while a win would bring a glow of joy to the churchman and reflect a ray of benificence on his flock.

The foregoing all leads up to the logical conclusion that betting is by no means an evil, and that betting in itself would never tend to make any man of moderate intelligence a gambler. it is for this reason that the totalisator is the most satisfactory medium through which betting can be done, because it does not tout. It a person wins a few pounds there is no chance of him being persuaded to put it ali up on a losing horse, and when that is done to spend more to get back what has been lost. The totalisator holds out no encouragement to anyone to bet, consequently it does not lure people on to gamble, and waste money they cannot afford.

The increased totalisator returns at recent race meetings have been declared by "wowsers” to indicate a growing gambling tendency. This deduction is ridiculous. The average, in fact the great majority, of racegoers in New Zealand are persons who bet as might the Archbishop of Adelaide. They go to a race meeting to see the sport and while there, and being well able to afford it, have a mild “flutter” on their fancy in several races.

It has been shown by trustworthy calculations that the fact of £20,000 going through the totalisator in the course of an afternoon's racing does not by any means imply that the assembled crowd has lost more chan ten per cent of the total, because the money keeps on passing through the machine on each race. The only actual loss to the public generally is the ten per cent, deducted by the club. And this is not really a loss because patrons get it all back indirectly in the excellent courses, splendid ap-' pointments and modern facilities provided by the racing clubs. Indeed this is not all because the amount left behind by the people goes to build up the stakes offered by the clubs, which in turn makes for improved racing and better sport.

The Titanic wreck is the greatest marine disaster that has ever happened, so great in fact that it is quite impossible to realise its greatness. It was, of course, quite natural that within a few hours of the terrible news becoming known, and before any details or reliable information were forthcoming frenzied individuals and the Yellow Press began to tell ihe world how it happened, how it could have been avoided, and how it was the result' of gross carelessness.

Even before any authentic information reached Washington, the frenzied Yankee Senate set up an Investigation Commission, which so far seems to have done little else than issue to the world garbled and sensational versions of what happened as retailed by seamen and stewards, while allowing responsible witnesses to be sneeringly insulted and treated with acrimony. It is very significant that the majority of those saved are Americans, and that they are the people who are supplying the morbid and contradictory accounts which must give pain to

every person with a spark of human sensibility. The Yankee as a class appears to be afflicted with a mental dstemper that prevents him from taking a temperate and charitable view of anything. He is a bitter-soul-ed creature. He weeps tears of salt for his personal losses but only sheds crocodile tears for the misfortunes of others.

Another trait of the American character, that the Titanic disaster only goes to emphasise, is their insatiable desire to pose before mankind as the very salt of the world. They don’t mind how* much mud is thrown so long as they can discredit men and women of other nations and glorify themselves. Apparently, this is the “order of reference” of the Senate’s Investigation Commission.

As an instance of the way in which the Yellow Press of America manufacture news we have only to refer to the cabled reports of the sinking of the Titanic and there we learn, on the authority (?) of New York newspapers, that Captain Smith, commander of the ill-fated leviathan liner, died a hero’s death, that he committed suicide by shooting himself, that he was washed

over board, that he jumped into the sea, that he went down with his ship, and that he gave a dozen different orders.

One last word about our Yankee cousins, who profess such concern for the relatives of those lost. Up to Monday the whole American nation, of one hundred million souls, who claim to be the wealthiest nation in the world, had subscribed £20,000 towards relief funds, while the Mansion House (London) fund alone totalled over £lOO,OOO.

Whatever may be the eventual verdict on the terrible wreck, which the British Prime Minister’ aptly referred to as “an event which appals the imagination,” it is idle to blame the White Star Company for not making adequate provision in the way of lifeboats. The loss of the Titanic, and the 1635 souls that went down with her, was certainly most deplorable; but it is hardly possible that the ingenuity of man could have

foreseen such a disaster and provided against every remote contingency. The Titanic was absolutely the last triumph in modern shipbuilding, and was the embodiment of years of experience and the genius of marine architecture and engineering.

The vessel was so constructed as to be regarded as practically unsinkable, and no doubt would have been in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of one thousand; therefore the life preservers and boats provided were naturally considered adequate. It is now useless to endeavour to attach blame for the terrible happening, however deplorable the loss of human life and property has been. Out of the dire calamity there is this solace to be derived: that at the first awful moment of trial, and during the solemn hours of waiting that followed the calm and serene courage that has through centuries been the proud tradition of the British race, shone and sustained the sufferers to the end.

There is one other matter to be grateful for in connection with the “greatest marine disaster/ and that is that 705‘ people Were saved. There can be .no question that but for “wire-

less” not a single soul would ever have lived to tell the story of the Titanic wreck. Even if the whole ship’s company had safely quitted the sinking steamer in boats it is doubtful if any one would ever have been rescued from the frozen sea and treacherous floating icebergs, for the simple reason that possibly another vessel would not have come within sight of the boats before every occupant had died of exposure, thirst and starvation. To that marvellous invention, therefore, of ethergraphy we must credit the saving of a third of the Titanic’s human freight.

The Scandinavian Pole-finder had a good reception at the Town Hall on Monday night, and everyone who went to hear his lecture in pigeonEnglish was charmed by his modesty. “ Everything went like a dance,” said Captain Amundsen, describing his epoch-making journey to the South Pole. In fact, they chasseed off rhe ship to the icefield, and set to partners on the first floe. While the walruses and the seals sang, " Will-you-Won’t-you-Will-you-Won’t-you-join-the - Dance,” Captain Amundsen and his first lieutenant linked themselves together in a Mosman cuddle, and waltzed like merry widows over the flank of Mount Erebus. They advanced and retired up the Tumbletop Glacier, and galloped merrily down the main glissade. The exploring party pirouetted over every crevasse on light fantastic toes, and whirled the startled penguins round in the ladies’ chain from SOdeg. to 90deg. south latitude. At Ssdeg. the band struck Up the Royal Irish, and in the sixth figure Amundsen changed dogs. Nearing the Pole, the dance I eeame a polka mazurka —one, two, three, and hop over the hummock. From SSdeg. to 90deg. it was a cakewalk down a soft snow slope, and finally, on the site pf the blessed Pole itself, Amundsen executed a danse du ventre, while his comrades clapped hands to show that the last figure had ended.

The Bishop of Auckland, Dr. Crossley, and other distinguished churchmen, have recently announced to astonished believers that Hell is a myth and that there is no such thing as material fire where the souls of evil-doers frizzle in the hereafter. Hell they say is simply a metaphor.

Is there no Hell- —no suited place For evil people lost to grace? For brazen maids who boldly face Unblushingly Bold, staring men, uncouth and bad, Who congregate, with laughter glad, Upon the beach, when merely clad From neck to knee?

Is there no place of fervent heat For gay Lotharios, who meet Their donahs, where the quiet street The lamp light spurns. For those who gaily stroll at night Far from the gas jet’s pious light, In ways of amorous delight— No Hell that burns?

Is there no Hell for folk who lark In quiet corners of the park, Where all is wrapped in gloomy dark, And silence reigns. No place where Bill and naughty Flo find other sinners here below, Who love the wicked picture show Shall suffer pains?

Is there no Hell for burly pugs— For those who drink from pewter mugs, And men, who linger in our jugs Most of their lives. Oh: sad, indeed, if there should be No Hell for my old enemy, No place for lasting misery, For nagging wives!

“Look here,” stormed the customer, pointing to the tureen, ‘what is the meaning of that dead fly in the soup?” “I regret, sir,” said the waiter politely, “I cannot supply you with the desired information. I am only supposed to serve the soup, not explain the ingredients.” “But a dead fly, man!” persisted the customer —“a dead fly! How did it happen?” “I am sorry to say sir,” replied the waiter, “I have no idea how the poor creature met its fate. Possibly it had not taken any food for a long time, and fluttering near the soup, found the flavour particularly pleasing, and, eating too heartily, contracted appendicitis or some kindred ailment, which, in' the absence of an opportunity for the application of the X-rays and the resultant operation, caused its untimely end.”